


votive's garland made

by pearypie



Category: The Borgias (2011)
Genre: Cesare and Lucrezia and love, Character Study, Devotion, F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 01:46:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10911819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: (And when he is emperor, he thinks softly, she shall be his empress and the whole of Italy can watch, awestricken and aghast, as he crowns her for all to see.)Cesare returns from France and Lucrezia desires a reaffirmation of his affections. Set somewhere in season 3.





	votive's garland made

He enters the villa as the last of the sun’s rays set, soaking the earth in red-orange fire that darkens, at the horizon, into a charcoal violet. It seeps into the receding sun’s embers, consuming one half of the earth, tainting it with night until tomorrow arrived and with it, the promised dawn. Cesare, however, does not relent until he is the privacy of his own study, laying scrolls and letters across dark mahogany wood though his sword and dagger remain attached to his person. Even as a child, Cesare was cautious—eyes sharp and shrewd, glimmering like onyx jewels under the sun as he appraised his surroundings.

Now, he borders on paranoia. The people of Rome have many reasons to hate him but as the bastard son to a Spanish pope, as a duke who seems to revel in casualty, and a brother who defies expectation, Cesare thinks paranoia is simply a compact word for the reality of their situation.

And for hours he sits there, behind this grand, stately desk, organizing truths and manufacturing abetment until Lucrezia arrives, footsteps light and fragile. Only she would dare present herself when even their mother knew of Cesare’s desire to be left alone after his return from France.

Yet here his darling Lucrezia stands, dressed in a velvet gown of crimson blood, threaded through with gold—hair caught up in a net of pearls. Oh his little sister so loved her pearls.

“What are you doing, Cesare?” She asks lightly—airily—as she goes to perch by his side, sitting on the arm of his chair in a manner so intimate that the words from his pen can be starkly read.

There are no secrets between them and Cesare chuckles, cynical with causticity.

“Collaborating, dear sis, with our earthly father to ensure the will of our lord in heaven.”

“I could have figured that one out for myself.” She snuggles closer, wanting to burn herself in his warmth. Cesare has always radiated heat and fire, his passions never ceasing until finally, they emitted from him—blazing, searing—and those who came too close felt the uncomfortable fever that came from his soul’s inferno.

The heaviness of his brow, the downturn of his lips—how he seemed to sneer and seethe with icy contempt and tightly held control. This is how others perceive him and _all the better,_ Lucrezia thinks, for what they see is an illusion—a papier-mâché design of the man who wields true power and who burns with fervor, ambition, and—

He sets down his quill, unable to write any longer. Not when she sits so close and he can sense the question on the tip of her tongue.

“What ails you my love?” Cesare turns to her, one hand caressing her cheek and she delights in how his gaze softens—how the stormy defiance calms into an expression of tender want and naked love. She smiles, lips curving soft and slow as she leans into his touch.

“I have missed you.” She says this simply.

It is their holy truth and the eternal covenant that tethers them together—her longing, his desire.

_Equal understanding._

“The designs of Rome are beautiful but I tire of looking at them.” Lucrezia continues, eyes fluttering shut. “The maids exhaust me, the noblewomen are vacuous, and my enjoyment of life has waned considerably since you last departed. Tell me, brother, why do I feel this way?”

“Perhaps because I am of the same kind.” He murmurs softly in return, hesitating for a split second before the thought of virtue dissipates, as quickly as it’d appeared. He brings one hand to Lucrezia’s waist and lightly lifts her onto his lap, relishing in her warm, familiar weight as she cuddles into him, cheek against his chest, his chin resting on top her golden head—physically intertwining to make up for lost time. “I am adrift without you sis, you know that.”

“You will think me foolish if I answer otherwise.” She mutters childishly, so very spoiled and well loved and—his curiosity is peaked.

“Crezia.” He says, low and expectant.

She giggles and moves about in his lap, rocking her hips a little to the left and then back again as her brother breaks, arms swiftly coming to lock her in place.

“ _Lucrezia._ ”

She presses her cheek even closer, reveling in his warmth for a moment more.

“Do not laugh, Cesare.” His sister warns, one hand coming to rest above his heart. _His heart beats for me,_ she thinks viciously, _and yet—_ “I do not know her, and she has not done anything to bring about my ire, but…” she trails off, lifting her head from his chest so they are facing one another, two perfect faces mirroring the other, “I do not like her, Cesare. I do not like how she steals you away from me, how you warm her bed and leave me in Rome with a husband I do not want and memories serving as my only reprieve.”

She is dewy eyed, on the precipice of sweet sorrow, and Cesare’s heart—raw and bloodied, a dysfunction thing at best—hangs on a chain around her neck. Does she not know? Does she truly not know?

He presses their foreheads together, eyes closed as he breathes in the sweet pomegranate fragrance of _Lucrezia._ “She is _less than nothing_ to me, sis.” He promises and speaks words of truth only she can evoke—“You, who knows me _so well,_ and who I love without compare…” he leans back, ever so slightly, one hand coming to trace her delicate jaw as he drinks her in, trying to impress the portrait of her face in his mind. Yet no matter how hard he tries—no matter how long he looks—the beauty of Lucrezia cannot be expressed with any portrait, thought, or moment.

She is the whole of his being, his reason for striving towards the gilded dreams he wears so well.

(And when he is emperor, he thinks softly, she shall be his empress and the whole of Italy can watch, awestricken and aghast, as he crowns her for all to see. After all, she has held the scepter for so long that the crown is but a pretty bauble for Lucrezia to delight in—for he so loves her effervescent joy, loves it more than Naples, Florence, and the whole of unconquered Italy.) 

His fingers weave into her silken hair, bringing her lips closer, _closer_ against his own…

“Crezia,” his voice is a prayer, “I have always belonged to you, without reservation or thought because to me, sis, loving you is as natural as breathing. As familiar as the sun’s rays—it’s the only promise I’ve ever believed in.” He confesses, relishing in her soft gasp of desire and, at last, giving in when her delicate little hands come to tug at his collar, impatient and sweet.

He places one, two, three kisses on her open mouth, eyes closed and hands binding her to him. Because even the great Cesare Borgia has fears and she, Lucrezia, is his love made flesh.

“ _Lucrezia, Lucrezia,_ ** _my_** _Lucrezia,_ ” her name leaves his lips in incoherent sighs and she folds herself into him because she has always been a greedy, jealous guard of her Cesare’s affections, wanting the whole of his being because he had all of hers.

In front of them, the pope’s letters, missives, and miscellaneous plans remain untouched as they held each other, insulated from the world, believing only in the next kiss from the other’s mouth—a simple, absolute truth they have known since childhood.

She has been made especially for him.

And he is bound, eternally, to her.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Went on Tumblr and got smacked in the face by my Cesare/Lucrezia feels. So I wrote this. 
> 
> Feedback welcome :)


End file.
